


Cliché: A History

by retts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Who are Twins, Comedy, Crack, Did I mention clichés?, F/M, M/M, Not to be taken seriously, Romance, Slash, Veelas, alternative universe, cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cliché: A History<br/>A guide to the fantastical world of Harry Potter. Fasten your seatbelts, folks, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. And here, have a paracetamol for the clichés you are about to encounter. SLASH</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chapter 1: Names are powerful. For example: You-Know-Who, The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Lived Again, He Who Must Not Be Named (Because His Name Is Horrifyingly Ordinary For Wizarding Standard). Nicknames are also essential: Har, ‘Mione, Sevvy, Cissy, Dray, Dumbley, Remy, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cliché: A History

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a night when I felt surly and out of sorts. Er. Seriously, I have no idea how this came about. I had like a satirical form in my head - and it turned into crack. 
> 
> Also, do you guys have a particular cliché you love/hate? Because I can only list so many. 
> 
> I hope to update at least once a week to kick start my writing fingers. Hopefully, that won't end up being a pipe dream.

Chapter 1: Names are powerful. For example: You-Know-Who, The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Lived Again, He Who Must Not Be Named (Because His Name Is Horrifyingly Ordinary For Wizarding Standard). Nicknames are also essential: Har, ‘Mione, Sevvy, Cissy, Dray, Dumbley, Remy, etc. 

-

One bright morning or stormy night – it doesn’t really matter – a baby wizard is about to be born. 

“Push, Lils, push!” Jamesie urges desperately because holy Merlin, his hand is about to break in Lils’ death grip. “I can see the head!” 

“That is all you’re going to get next time!” Lils yells as the pain rips through her. Sweat makes her face shine as she pushes, pants, pants, pushes, pants, pants, and pants. “JAMES POTTER I HATE YOU!” 

Albus Dumbley – who demands to be present in the birthing of every magical, prophecy child – twinkles in the corner. “Children,” he chuckles. 

There’s a pop (no, it’s not the baby yet) and Siri appears out of nowhere. “Jamesie!” he cries ecstatically, throwing his arms around his best mate. “Where is my godchild?” 

“Not now, Siri,” Jamesie grits out as the bones in his hand grinds together. “Ow, Lils.” He falters when Lils gives him a ferocious glare. “I, I mean, you can keep crushing my hand as long as you like, love. Not to worry.” 

The midwife, who is surprisingly quiet (unimportant enough not to have a name, more like; poor thing), suddenly yanks something from between Lils’ legs and lo and behold, there is the baby wizard made slippery from all sorts of nasty fluids. His forehead is reassuringly unblemished. 

“He is beautiful,” Siri whispers as the midwife casts your regular cleaning charm on the baby and then wraps him in a blue blanket. 

“My son,” Jamesie chokes out in pain from his wrecked fingers, though later he will claim that he was overcome with joy. Lils reaches for the bundle and peers blissfully into the infant’s face. His crying immediately ceases as he feels the overwhelming wave of his mother’s love. “What should we name him, Lils?” 

“That is an important choice, my boy,” Dumbley finally speaks up, still sparkling. “You must choose a name that will help define your son. Something catchy and appropriate for a book title; he may become a writer in the future. A name that cannot be said unless it is spoken in full.”

They ponder on this for a while. 

“I know,” Siri exclaims with a snap of his fingers. “Let’s call him Jamesie Jr. Or a name of a star or constellation. Orion is a good name. Kellan. Ark’han. Erebus. Khkaklinanriudoer. Samain. Altair. Something exotic and completely unpronounceable like that.” 

“Don’t be daft, Siri,” Lils says with a roll of her eyes. “Those names belong to some other child in an alternate universe. We will call him Harrison. Harrison Potter.” 

“Er, how about Harry?” Jamesie suggests, pulling out his wand to perform a healing spell on his hand. Lils, however, filches the wand before he can say the incantation and smiles sweetly at him. Jamesie whimpers. 

A thoughtful look falls on Lils’ face. “Harry Potter. Hm. It could work.” 

Dumbley beams. “It’s decided, then. Welcome to the world, Mr Harry Potter.” 

Suddenly, Lils’ face contorts in agony as she screams again. 

-  
-

In another part of England – Wiltshire, most probably – a beautiful, shimmering blond baby boy starts to wail. 

“Dray,” his mother coos and picks him up from his enchanted crib made out of gold, mahogany, and the tears of a thousand house elves. “My Dragon, what is wrong? Hush, now, Mummy is here.” 

Dray doesn’t stop. His crying gets louder and louder as he thrashes in her hold. 

The doors open and a tall, robust blond man using a cane as a fashion statement strides in. He’s expression is torn between concern and irritation. “What is the matter with our Dragon, Cissy?” 

“Oh Lucious,” Cissy says as she holds her son closer in a gesture of loving protection. “I haven’t a clue. We should call Sevvy; he might know something. It might be a rare magical disease or the beginnings of a soul bond.” 

“Did you check the child’s diaper?” Lucious asked. 

“…No.” 

“Right, then. Hottie!” 

A house elf pops into the bedroom, already bowing with her ears touching the floor. “What is Hottie may be doings for the masters?” 

“Check Draconis’ diaper,” Lucious orders with a snap of his cane on the elf’s hip. It is also applicable as a mild torture device. 

“It’s would be an honor, masters!” 

-  
-

Lils laughs playfully as she chases the toddler around the kitchen. The child giggles and teeters on his teeny tiny feet behind the dining table. Lils circles the table and spreads out her arms, beaming. 

“Got you!” It is Jamesie who yells as he lifts the baby up in the air and the boy squeals in delight, clapping his hands. “You’re getting heavy, son.” 

Just then, the door is blasted from its hinges and You-Know-Who steps inside, followed by his masked Death Eaters. 

“Hand over the boy,” You-Know-Who demands, wand drawn. 

Jamesie thrusts the boy into Lils’ arms, whipping out his own wand. “Lils, run! Run!” 

Lils makes a pained noise and bolts up the stairs, glancing over her shoulder as a flash of green light brightens the house. Tears fall from her eyes, blinding her, as her heart wrenches. “No, no, no, no, no, Jamesie!”

She nearly stumbles on the uppermost stair before sprinting into one of the bedrooms, spelling the door closed. She knows she doesn’t have much time, no time to grieve at all. In her panic, she places the child in the crib and makes a dash for the window. Lils frantically scrabbles with the stubborn latch and sobs as she finally gets the window unlocked. 

“Give me the child and I will spare you,” You-Know-Who’s voice hisses from behind her. 

Someone casts a spell that has the window slamming closed. 

Lils moans, “Please, not Harry. Not - ” 

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stares disdainfully at her. 

“Avada Kedavra,” he murmurs lovingly and the curse swiftly takes Lils’ life even as she begs. She falls to the floor, dead. 

The Dark Lord turns toward the crib, where there are two little boys inside. One is just waking up, yawning widely, while the other one looks up at the intruders. 

“With your death, my victory is assured,” You-Know-Who declares to his Death Eaters. His dark eyes glitter malevolently. “Goodbye, Harry Potter.” 

The same bright green curse flashes from the Dark Lord’s wand but as it is about to hit Harry, the strangest thing happens. It literally bounces off the baby’s forehead and back at its castor. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can’t even blink before he is the one engulfed by the Killing Curse. Magic is released within the room in a maelstrom, thrashing the bedroom until broken furniture and debris are knocking against the walls. Then it is all over and the Dark Lord’s robes crumple to the ground, bodiless, and the Death Eaters all panic. They take no heed of the two boys as they flee Godric’s Hollow. 

A moment later, Dumbley Apparates in the middle of the wreckage. Lils’ body is somehow unharmed, lying so still by the window. Tears slip from Dumbley’ stormy eyes. 

“Ah, my boys,” Dumbley murmurs sadly as he turns to the crib. 

The sleepy boy is now crying loudly, a star-shaped scar on his forehead. The other one, meanwhile, is still unnervingly quiet. His scar is in the shape of a lightning bolt. 

Dumbley touches the former’s head. “Atlas Potter, you are the Boy Who Got Lucky. No. The Boy Who Lived.”


End file.
